


East End

by LittleRedRoseontheValley



Category: Desire & Decorum (Visual Novel)
Genre: Conspiracy, F/M, French Revolution, Napoleonic Wars, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedRoseontheValley/pseuds/LittleRedRoseontheValley
Summary: After another round distributing bread, Ernest Sinclaire stumbles on something he was not supposed to know.





	East End

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is basically an introduction to the MC I have been using on my stories these last few weeks. I expanded, with some (A LOT) of creative liberty, on the White!MC’s backstory provided at that diamond scene with Hamid three weeks ago.
> 
> What is historically accurate: The Count of Provence and most Bourbons were living in Britain from 1809 to the Restoration, under an invite from the then-Prince of Wales.
> 
> Most of them lived in semi-reclusion in Buckinghamshire, and Louis XVIII did publish several manifestos claiming the crown and outlying what he would do if he were to become king, but, in 1811, it seemed pretty clear that it would never happen. They were on exhile for almost twenty years by then, and Napoleon seemed to be winning, read ‘not losing’, the war against… Europe, pretty much.
> 
> It is also true that the British crown was pretty much indifferent about Louis XVIII’s claim. They did support attempts to invade France during the 1790′s, and they were part of the First and Second Coalitions, which intended to restore ‘order’ and ‘legality’ to France, but as Napoleon not-lost wars against three consecutive coalitions, he cemented somekind of legitimacy as the head of the French State.
> 
> What is not true: courtly etiquette. I really don’t know how the French greeted their king. I do know, though, it is horribly intricate and took too much research that a 2,000-word piece warrants to get it right. So hand-kissing it is, deal with it.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

It was the dead of the night in East End, the weather was cool and a soft mist was forming near the uneven wet cobbles of the street.

They were having an abnormal cold and wet springtime on that year of the Lord 1811. Not a good thing for those who lived on that area of the British capital, for they had not enough money for food, lest for wood and heating.

For Ernest, who had just finished his rounds delivering bread to the starving workers of the area, the weather was, like most things that surrounded him, indifferent.

So is the life of eternal boredom and disinterest. Everything was ambivalent and grey.

It was, however, a hassle. He thought the night would be pleasant enough to walk back to his house, as he preferred, and had dismissed his driver for the night. At this hour, there would be no rentals available, so he would wet his coat over nothing.

He preferred not to be bothered by the curious stares of his groom, but he was better stared at than wet and cold, to be sure.

As the esquire turned a corner, he saw something that greatly confounded him. It was a carriage, and one he knew quite well.

Luke Harper, the groom on the employ of his neighbours, was driving the distinctively luxurious carriage, moving lazily through the fog, believing, within good reason, that he would not be seen or recognized in any way.

The horses stopped at front of the best-kept house on the street. The conductor makes no move to get down from his seat to open the door, as it would be expected of him if he carried one of his patrons.

Ernest had taken this as evidence he was carrying nobody, or that his business at the neighbourhood were of a personal order. Desiring no further entanglement with whatever business the man was conducting, lest it to be something unsavoury, the blond man crossed the street to continue his way to his house, trying to pass unnoticed.

However, before he lost eyesight of the carriage, a woman steps out. She wore a black dress and a cape, but the hood was not covering her head, where a beautiful stem of brown hair, tied neatly to form a thin cascade just past her shoulders.

Ernest could recognize that hair anywhere. He spent much more time than he cared to admit thinking about it, and about the rest of the person who wore it so gracefully. Lady Susan Beauchamp, the natural daughter and current heir of the Earl of Edgewater.

Just as soon as her feet touch the sidewalk, Mr Harper prompts the horses to move forward, and soon it disappears on the mist. The cloaked figure knocks on the door and is quickly ushered inside.

Feeling the curiosity and the concern getting the best out of him, he walks surreptitiously to the building. It was detached from its neighbours, a rarity in that particular street, but it was a guarantee there would be another point of entry or a window to peek.

Walking around the place, the esquire finds such a window, on the left side of the building, overlooking an alleyway. Benefitting with the prevalent darkness at the streets, he could sneak into a comfortable watching position.

Inside, there were about ten people, all wearing black aside from a single overweight man dressed in white, sitting on a chair right about on the far end of the room, on Ernest’s left. None of them wore jewellery, either, probably advisable due to the dangerous nature of their surroundings.

Another thing that resonated with the landowner was the fact there was no women in the room, aside the one brought by Edgewater’s groom and another one, a blonde, standing right next to the fat man.

A few moments later, Susan approaches the man in white, kneels and kisses his hand. Ernest contained his gasp, as it was a much too weird gesture to dedicate to a person, especially one as disgusting-looking as that man on the chair.

The young heiress stands once again and takes a few steps back. Her sights cross with the only other woman’s, who smile kindly at her presence. The man in white starts talking, though, and all eyes are on him.

Ernest could not hear what was being said, but whatever passed through the filter of the glass was certainly not English.

He stood there, observing attentively the exchange, for good part of thirty minutes. However, his focus on the scene meant he did not take proper care of the environment around him, and he was then tackled by a dark figure.

The esquire was hardly a man devout of physical activities, horseback riding and some gardening being the most that brought him outside in the sun. That, coupled with his distractedness, made him to be easily overpowered and taken inside the building.

Once inside, he was placed on his knees in front of the figure in white, being held in position firmly through his shoulders.

“ _Votre Majesté,_ ” The man holding Ernest said, deferent. “ _Mes excuses pour l'interruption. Cet homme a été retrouvé à l'arrière du bâtiment._ ”

The man in white pressed his lips, a sign of anger. Ernest could feel Susan staring down at him, but he did not look up to meet her glance.

“ _Vous ne pensez pas que cet homme pourrait être un espion, monsieur?_ ” The fat man asks.

“ _Il n'est pas un espion, Votre Majesté._ ” Susan says, with an edge of anger on her voice. “ _Je le connais, c'est un ami de mon père. Puis-je être autorisé à traiter avec lui?_ ”

The man signals his approval with a hand-wave and he is taken to a side room, followed closely behind by Susan. She seats on an armchair, while he is forced to stand. The man that guarded him so far brings a few candelabras into the room and leaves them to themselves.

“What in Lord’s name are you doing here, Mr Sinclaire?” She asks impatiently, as soon as they are left alone. “This is not a neighbourhood where I can believe a man of your station happens to be spending his night.”

“I could very well ask the same of you, Lady Susan.” He counters, trying to maintain a haughty position of moral superiority. “If it is no place for a gentleman, it is also no place for a countess in the making.”

Her clear eyes formed a glare one might wonder if it is indeed incapable of murder. “As I am sure you have noticed, seeing you are spying on my every move for God knows how long, I have done nothing unbecoming or inappropriate for my station tonight. I am sorry to say I cannot say the same about you.”

“I apologize, milady, if it seemed as if I followed you here from Trafalgar Square, but do not assume I frequent houses of ill-repute for reasons of my libido.” He says, matching her raging tone. “If you believe me, I say I was on the region for a charitable work. I give out loaves of bread to the women with children.”

The woman evaluates him carefully with her glinting eyes, finally softening her stance. “I believe you. Now, I must ask for you to leave.”

“You will not hand me the courtesy of explaining what was that I saw tonight?” He asks, in equal parts defiant and pleading.

“I do not think I should, but anything you thought you saw would probably be much worse than the actual truth.” She weighted. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

The esquire withholds a scoff. It would serve him no good. Instead, he says, “Who is that man in white? The one you kissed the hand?”

Susan gives him a side smirk, an amused reaction of those who know something their interlocutors do not. “That man, Mr Sinclaire, is the Louis, the Count of Provence. Or, if you so prefer, King Louis XVIII of France. In fact, most of those people are members of the Bourbon dynasty. The Count of Artois, the Duke and Duchess of Angouleme, the Duke of Berry.”

The information takes some time to be internalized by Ernest’s mind. The King of France? He remembered reading on the paper a few months back that the surviving Bourbons had come to Britain upon invitation of the Prince of Wales, but he also recalled they were to remain in Buckinghamshire, quite ways off London.

Regardless, why would Susan, the natural daughter of a middle-tier English noble, have any business with the pretender French king or any of his family? Especially one that allowed them such familiarity with the Bourbons?

Predicting it to be the next question from Mr Sinclaire, Susan commences her tale: “You see, Mr Sinclaire, my mother is not English. She is from the continent, more specifically Brittany. Her parents, my grandparents, were landowners, country gentry not too different from yourself or my natural father.

“In 1789, came the Fear.” Her voice grows dark. “I cannot say whether my grandparents were good people, if they were charitable and just or if they were cruel to their serfs. I never met them. In whichever case, they were lynched and their house was set on fire.

“My mother, being just a girl on the cusp of her fifteenth birthday, was spared, but she was now homeless and an orphan. She, then, walked to Caen, where she met an Englishman who was besotted with her singing voice, so much so, he was willing to pay her journey across the Channel and sponsor her entrance to an opera company here in London. Given the ill-feelings the English had towards the French, my mother preferred to conceal her nationality.

“The next part of the story you probably know, my mother meeting my father, he promising to marry her, only for his father to deny him and imposing a match with Henrietta instead.” The woman gloss over the information. “After I was born, my mother started corresponding with several émigrés. She even helped a few settle in Britain under assumed names. In turn, she requested for them to send books to help raising me properly.

“One of those correspondents happened to be the Duchess of Angouleme, who referred me and my family to my uncle. I came here to meet with them, to discuss current events and their plans for the future. It is all.”

“But why _here_?” Ernest asks, pointedly. “Why so overt about it?”

She sighs. “Britain’s position regarding the legitimacy of the Bourbon claim has changed. While the British Crown sees positively the return of a Bourbon to the throne of France, they are no longer willing to support a takeover on the lines of those in the 1790’s. Restoration depends on whether a final solution with Napoleon can be reached, and how this solution presents itself.

“That being said, and reminding that they are in England under a personal invitation of the Prince Regent, it could be damaging to their standing in the country if they are suspected to be gathering émigrés for another attempt at a takeover. It is better if our meetings, be mine with the Bourbons, be with any other Frenchman, to be as discreet as possible.”

“I understand, Lady Susan.” He nods, soberly. “Thank you for you kindly sharing this story with me. I apologise for imposing into your affairs, especially one of this nature.”

“Pay no heed, Mr Sinclaire.” The woman bobs her head gracefully. “However, I must ask for your absolute discretion on the subject.”

“Of course. I will tell no soul.” The esquire promises, voice even and eyes looking deep into hers.”

“Good. Now come, I will escort you out and arrange for a carriage to take you back to your house.”

Susan leads him outside, where a horse car waited, probably for one of the men inside the place. She talks with the groom in French, probably persuading him to take the Englishman home.

As London passes by the window and the East End is left behind, swallowed by the white fog, Ernest considers what he saw and heard from Lady Susan.

The woman was beautiful and fascinating, that was clear to anyone with two eyes and sense, but she also had secrets, and scars, she hides behind that natural debonair of hers.

Perhaps it was childish of him, just some petty curiosity that would bring no satisfaction, if not offense, but if Ernest was sure of one thing, is that he was eager to find out more of what hide beneath Lady Susan’s appearances.


End file.
